


And Lady Fate Smiled

by BadassIndustries



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon with Magic, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Because Lady Fate said so, Canon Era, Courfeyrac and Cosette were meant to be best friends, Fate meddles in France, Gen, M/M, POV Courfeyrac, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:27:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23809132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadassIndustries/pseuds/BadassIndustries
Summary: Of all the gods that could have turned their faces to France, Lady Fate was by far the kindest. At least that was what the rich said. Fair, fortunate France, they said, as they counted their coins and carriages.And now the new king wanted to build a temple for Lady Fate, to serve as a shining example that Fate smiled on the House of Bourbon, to legitimise this new King of the People in a way no mere Marquis could.Well, not if Courfeyrac and his friends have anything to say about it.
Relationships: Combeferre & Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Combeferre & Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac & Cosette Fauchelevent
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	And Lady Fate Smiled

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a gift for ghostplantss who asked for canon era, magic, miscommunication and mutual pining. I hope I delivered, along with a generous dose of romantic friendship. And a lot less death...
> 
> Enjoy!

Of all the gods that could have turned their faces to France, Lady Fate was by far the kindest. At least that was what the rich said. Fair, fortunate France, they said, as they counted their coins and carriages. Of course, Enjolras said it too, but from his lips it sounded like a sacred vow. France would be fortunate and it would be fair, if not now, then in the future. You only needed to look at Enjolras to know he had gotten Fortune’s favour. You did not see them often, nowadays, the children born with Lady Fate’s favour, however much the Palace proclaimed that each royal child was one such shining soul. But Enjolras was truly blessed by Lady Fate, Courfeyrac knew this for certain. In every step he took, you could see that Enjolras could never stray from the path of his destiny. This did not mean he always knew the right step to take, just the direction he must go. He said he could feel it sometimes, destiny pulling him in a certain direction. Leading him into the beautiful future Fate intended. That absolute shining certainty, strong enough to carry them all forward, was absolutely beautiful.

And so was Enjolras, which sometimes caused him great distress in the most endearing manner Courfeyrac had ever seen. Enjolras saw the beauty in purpose and friendship, but not so much in the fine form of those who would love to admire him a little closer. Courfeyrac could never have enough admirers, so he took care to kindly divert that attention to himself or his friends whenever possible. It was a fair partnership they had this way. Enjolras dealt with Fate and with their purpose, Courfeyrac dealt with their public activities – their cover as careless companions in charity – and Combeferre dealt with the connections that required a steadier hand. He went to the Polytechnique, to the hospitals and to the poorhouses. He was imminently trustworthy, and Courfeyrac completely understood why anyone would look on his handsome, calm face and put their life in his hands. Courfeyrac did that years ago, and it was the best decision he ever took. Aside from pulling away the beautiful young man getting himself into a fight he couldn’t possibly win, of course. Courfeyrac thanked Fate for his friends daily.

In this, Courfeyrac was not the only one. He could not even say he had the most claim to the sentiment. That honour inevitably went to L’Aigle, who got struck down by Fate as often as she smiled down on him. He was the unluckiest fellow Courfeyrac has ever met, but in his friendships he was the man who had achieved the most harmonious happiness. Fate might like to play tricks on Bossuet, but she always made sure to return him to the arms of his lovers safe and sound. It is these lovers that Courfeyrac now had business with. Bossuet and his friend Joly had long been part of Courfeyrac’s merry band of anti-monarchists, but the third of their romance he had never met. She was Joly’s mistress formally, but it was no secret that her heart was shared between the two friends. Courfeyrac was very much looking forward to meeting her, she sounded delightful. She also sounded like she could be just the thing they had been waiting for. Les Amis de L’Abaissé, the name under which Courfeyrac’s friends banded together, had been searching for a way to stop the treachery of the Palace, but to no avail. Until now. Louis-Philippe and his new “Minister of Fate” had decided to build a temple for Lady Fate. It was to serve as a shining example that Fate smiled on the House of Bourbon, to legitimise this new King of the People in a way no mere Marquis could. It was hubris, pure and simple, even aside from the disgusting treason of subduing a nation that ought to be free. Courfeyrac had thrown the announcement into the fire with great force. He heartily wished this new Royal Temple would burn as merrily. Most did, of course. Kings and emperors alike had attempted to harness Fate, constrain her into one structure, forced under their power alone. They always failed. Buildings crumbled, sank into the swamp or caught fire. Enjolras said this was because Fate walked with the People, not the monarchy. Courfeyrac would believe him, but for the depressing fact that the foundation of the temple was growing steadily, day by day.

So now they were here, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras, to ask Mademoiselle Musichetta for her wisdom. Joly said she had the eyes of a fortune teller, that she knew of rituals that could clarify Fate’s design. Courfeyrac couldn’t wait.

Musichetta’s apartment, when they arrived, was disappointingly normal. A light and airy drawing room which, while small, was tastefully decorated. Musichetta herself was exactly the kind of modish, pretty girl Courfeyrac would have picked, had he been asked to find a lady for Joly or Bossuet. She had gorgeous hair, tiny hands and a vibrant sense of humour. Her eyes sparkled as she poured them tea and listened to Bossuet explain how he tragically lost the chocolates he had intended to gift to her. Courfeyrac thought she was delightful and couldn’t wait to befriend her and possibly ask her impertinent questions about her relationship with his friends, but he did not see any marks of Fate on her. He tried not to be too disappointed.

“Are you to read our tealeaves then?” he asked with a friendly smile.

“Do not mistake my friend, he is not asking in jest,” Combeferre supplemented needlessly. He was always trying to temper Courfeyrac’s teasing, just as Courfeyrac injected some levity in Combeferre’s sobriety.

“I could,” said Musichetta, handing Bossuet his mug. She had supplied her guests with some rather fine china and Courfeyrac had spied more cups in the cabinet. Either Musichetta was angry at Bossuet, which did not seem likely considering the way she greeted him, or she had become the victim of his peculiar misfortunes more often.

Musichetta took a sip of tea from her dainty cup and looked her three guests in the eye one by one. When she turned her eyes to Courfeyrac, he felt as if she was examining his very soul. After a moment, while Courfeyrac found himself sitting up straight without consciously deciding to, she nodded decisively.

“I will not read your leaves, for you three I can do something better.” She glanced back at Enjolras. “Especially you, Monsieur. I cannot illuminate Fate’s design to those who are not in her light. I think for you, the ritual will work.”

They each expressed their gratitude in their own way. Grateful thanks and speeches praising her honour were both waved away, although Musichetta did accept the kiss Bossuet bestowed on her cheek.

The ritual was a solemn thing, in which Musichetta drew signs on parchment the purpose of which she did not deign to explain. She had asked them to stay silent, so with great restraint Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Combeferre refrained from asking the many questions that naturally presented themselves. Drawings done, Musichetta instructed them in solemn tones to sign their names and mark it with a drop of their blood. Courfeyrac did not like the sight of blood, so preferred not to dwell on it. He signed his name and pressed a drop of blood to the parchment, sucking his poor injured finger while he watched his companions do the same. Musichetta then instructed them to close their eyes and empty their minds, which Courfeyrac very much struggled to do. Instead he prayed to Fate for her kindness and hoped that would do. The smell of paper burning spread across the room as Musichetta held the parchment to a flame. Courfeyrac waited for something to happen, but all there was to notice was dark and silence and smoke. He tried to keep still as long as he could, but started fidgeting after a few minutes. He sighed. He waited a moment longer. No one was moving or saying anything and he could not bear it any longer.

“I don’t think this is working,” he said plaintively and opened his eyes. He blinked. His eyes were failing him, clearly. Instead of his friends sitting in a neat little drawing room, he saw a garden with no one in sight. He closed his eyes and reached out his hand. His hand touched Combeferre, warm and secure, still sitting beside him. He found his hand and entwined their fingers. Combeferre was real, and safe, and the ritual must be working after all. Courfeyrac looked at the garden until the vision started to fade. He blinked once more and found Musichetta looking at him intently.

“It worked, didn’t it,” she said with certainty, “this only works for those who can open their minds to Fate’s design, but for you it worked.”

Courfeyrac could not wonder at the pride in her voice. If he knew how to do such a wonderful thing, he would have been immeasurably more proud. He straightened his waistcoats and looked around.

"Did you see that?" said Enjolras with eyes glittering in excitement, "The carriage, in front of the private residence of M’sieur le Ministre."

"No, I saw Courfeyrac, handing a lady out of a carriage, greeting her," said Combeferre, in a very controlled tone.

“What did you see Courfeyrac?" asked Enjolras eagerly.

“I saw a letter, written in an elegant hand, laying on a stone bench,” replied Courfeyrac. “It was in a park or garden, but I could not make out the contents."

“These visions must be connected,” said Enjolras. “Combeferre, the carriage, was it black and drawn by a grey horse?”

“It was,” said Combeferre.

Courfeyrac frowned. Combeferre wasn’t half as excited about this proof of a higher power as Courfeyrac thought he would be. “Was that all you saw?” Courfeyrac asked carefully. Perhaps if Combeferre saw an ill omen, he would conceal it to not discourage his friends.

“Yes,” said Combeferre curtly and stood up. “Mam’selle Musichetta, we are most grateful to you. My friends, I will see you tonight.” He bowed himself out with uncharacteristic formality, which Courfeyrac watched with a slight frown. Enjolras didn’t notice, wrapped up as he was in planning. They agreed to set a watch outside of M le Ministre’s house, to see if they could find the carriage or the lady. Courfeyrac would visit the parks, to see if he could locate the bench. Bossuet would stay and assist Musichetta with her writing. If this was a euphemism, Courfeyrac was far too much of a gentleman to show his suspicions.

They parted ways, to meet again in the evening, hopefully with new information. When Courfeyrac got home, he was accosted by a rapturous Marius Pontmercy.

"I saw the most beautiful lady, an angel," he burst forth. Courfeyrac cheerfully congratulated him on finally recognising the existence of the fairer sex, spent an agreeable half hour listening to his friend explain he knew nothing about this angel at all and took his leave when Marius decided he would wander the streets of Paris to find her.

When the triumvirate reconvened in the backroom of the Musain, Courfeyrac had no good news to share. He had not found the particular bench he had been shown. Only Enjolras could give a positive report. The entrance he had seen did indeed belong to M le Ministre, even though the carriage did not. Combeferre did not have anything to report either. He did not recognise the lady and had not accidentally stumbled onto her identity. They had harboured the hope that the lady in Combeferre’s vision might have been the Minister’s daughter, who served as hostess in his household. But she was not, being fair and tall, while the unknown lady had brown hair done up in fashionable curls and she was certainly no taller than Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac settled upon asking Combeferre whatever was the matter in private. He described the lady with the calm countenance always to be expected from Combeferre, but Courfeyrac knew his friend well enough to be able to see he was in pain. Something must have happened. But when he pulled Combeferre aside, Combeferre brushed him off.

“I have no desire to discuss it at his point.” He said and moved to walk away. Courfeyrac tried to stop him with a friendly arm around his shoulders and tease him into telling his secrets, but Combeferre flinched away from him. Shocked, Courfeyrac sat down and let Combeferre leave.

When they all sauntered in, Enjolras explained to their compatriots what their visions had been with glowing fervour. Bahorel floated the notion that the particular vivid daydream he had of punching a monarchist architect in the face may have been a vision from Fate as well. Jehan recited a poem of his own making about a dream he had, which was so full of poetic metaphors about either death or romance that Courfeyrac could not understand it at all. Courfeyrac passed over his turn to speak. Enjolras had really said it all, and more passionately than Courfeyrac could have. And he felt he would prefer not to go speak now, while he still felt unsettled. Combeferre was never so curt with him. Combeferre always had time and kindness for Courfeyrac, one of the many reasons why Courfeyrac loved him so.

Before anyone could question why Courfeyrac was so uncharacteristically silent, the door slammed open and silence fell. Courfeyrac whirled around, ready to fight or throw anything incriminating into the fire. But it was only Marius. He relaxed and then nearly fell over in shock. It was Marius, holding the hand of a beautiful young lady in a very fashionable gown. Within a glance, Courfeyrac immediately recognised the shine of Fate in her dark hair.

“Courfeyrac, I found her!” Marius shouted across the room. His hair was in disarray and Courfeyrac had never seen him so excited. He kept on babbling about angels and visions of beauty and not actually introducing the lady he brought into a closed meeting of secret anti-monarchist revolutionaries. She looked a bit shocked, but not at all frightened.

“Marius!” Courfeyrac raised his voice to overwhelm Marius’ sheer excited volume, “Mademoiselle, I apologise for my friend’s exuberance, I assure you—”

“No need,” said the lady, and looked at Marius with such a look in her eye that Courfeyrac felt his heart warm.

“I think I have been waiting for M’sieur Pontmercy a long time,” she smiled. Happiness shone on her face and she looked as pretty as a bride. Marius turned to look her in the eyes with such an expression that Courfeyrac had to turn away. He felt like he was intruding, even though it was the obviously enamoured couple that burst into his meeting. Feeling off kilter and at a loss at what to do, Courfeyrac looked around at his friends. They were all grinning, and joking, or chastely averting their eyes, except for Combeferre. Combeferre was staring, with his mouth open in shock. Courfeyrac hesitated, but went to him anyway.

“What is it, Combeferre?”

“It’s her,” whispered Combeferre, “that’s the lady from my vision.” He looked shocked, but when Courfeyrac peered into his eyes to divine his emotions, Courfeyrac thought he also looked like that icy pain was melting off him. But he couldn’t pay it too much mind, since Grantaire was approaching Marius’ lady and Courfeyrac felt a powerful pull, from Fate or just common sense, that moved him to avoid this encounter with speed and alacrity.

He intercepted Grantaire and sent him to remove the wine from the table in order to offer the lady a seat.

“Mademoiselle, my dear Pontmercy is not doing his duty in introducing us, so I will take the liberty to introduce myself. My name is Courfeyrac and I am at your service, particularly if you will tell me how you came to meet my dear friend.”

The lady sat down elegantly and smiled up at him. Marius did not leave her side as she lifted her gloved hand to keep his hand in hers. “My name is Cosette Fauchelevent and I dreamed of M’sieur Pontmercy before I saw him, so I knew I was meant to meet him. My mother always told me Fate had a hand in rearing me and I think She also brought me here.”

Enjolras looked up sharply at the mention of Fate. He wasn’t that good at seeing Fate’s influence on other people. Courfeyrac has always held the theory that Fate’s light shone from him so brightly his whole world was illuminated with it, outshining the path Fate was lighting for others. But Cosette shone brightly too.

“What kind of dream,” Enjolras inquired politely.

“The same as I had, Courfeyrac I told you!” Marius interjected.

“I beg your pardon my dear Pontmercy, you told me you were out walking and saw an angel, you told me nothing of young ladies sent by Fate,” Courfeyrac protested.

“I did! I did, I was walking and suddenly I did not see the street, but a peaceful garden with the most beautiful lady I had ever seen. And then she was gone and all I saw was the normal city and I was lost without her.”

There was a becoming blush growing on Cosette’s cheeks which matched the one permanently branded on Marius’ face. Courfeyrac was already growing very fond of the two of them. He privately decided that he would be their best man. He would dance with Cosette at her wedding and dress Marius for the ceremony and it would be a glorious day.

Enjolras however, was less interested in the romance of it all.

“Mademoiselle,” he said earnestly. “I believe Fate has indeed sent you to us. Are you perhaps in any way connected with M le Ministre?”

“Who?” Cosette inquired.

“Jules Auguste, Le Ministre du Dèstin,” clarified Combeferre, “you see Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, Fate has prepared us for your visit. I have seen you, in the company of my friend here, in front of Monsieur Auguste’s house.”

“Auguste? Oh, do you mean Hèloise’s father? Yes, I know her. We were at the convent together, we used to be great friends.”

A cheer went up from the assembled Amis and Cosette smiled becomingly. There was a spark of defiant certainty in her eyes that made Courfeyrac certain they were going to be great friends.

“Yes, that’s it!” exclaimed Enjolras, fire in his eyes. “Hèloise Auguste is the minister’s political hostess. Mademoiselle,” he looked at Cosette with those piercing passionate eyes, “will you do France the service for which Fate has brought you here?”

Cosette nodded, without a smidge of uncertainty, not at all intimidated by Enjolras’ passion or the enormity of the task before her. Courfeyrac felt inexplicably proud.

From that fateful discovery, the plan grew quickly. Cosette would write to her friend to arrange a meeting. Courfeyrac, using his father’s participle to gain admittance, would accompany her on this visit. Together, they would convince Hèloise Auguste of the unjustness of her father’s plots, or otherwise discover some other way to impede the building of the temple. This plan could not go wrong, since Fate had brought them to this point.

When the meeting was over and all their friends dispersed to make merry or mischief, Combeferre appeared at Courfeyrac’s side.

“Courfeyrac, I owe you an apology. I have not treated you as I ought.” He looked so grave and serious that Courfeyrac immediately wanted to try everything in his power to make him smile again.

“Nonsense, my friend. But if you’d like to unburden your heart, I’d love to hear it.”

“That’s just it, I knew you’d guess,” Combeferre said ruefully.

“Guess what? I’m afraid I do not know what you are referring to.”

“Unburdening my heart. My heart has been heavy, as of late. Heavy in the sense that its weight bears on me heavily and I’ve longed for your help carrying it.”

Courfeyrac frowned. Combeferre didn’t usually speak in metaphors.

“I will tell you the vision that Fate showed me. Perhaps then you will understand.”

“You kept something behind?”

“Yes. I did not tell you every detail. You see, I did see you, handing a beautiful lady out of a carriage. But I saw you kissing her cheek, embracing her fondly. And I thought…" Combeferre smiles regretfully. “I foolishly thought that would mean something it obviously didn’t, as I realise now by seeing the way Mademoiselle Fauchelevent looks to Pontmercy.”

Understanding dawned like hope. Courfeyrac found the world tilt back to where it was supposed to be and his heart felt warm. He rushed to reassure his friend, to restore the warm smile back to that handsome face.

“I like her excessively and I’m sure we will be great friends. But not,” Courfeyrac reached out to hold Combeferre’s hand in his own, “the kind of friendship we have, my friend.”

He tilted his face up to Combeferre’s and saw understanding dawning in his eyes. Courfeyrac rushed to Combeferre and launched himself into his welcoming arms. In Combeferre’s embrace, Courfeyrac sent his thanks to Lady Fate, for all the blessings she had sent him.

“Oh,” said Jehan Prouvaire, staring at them with tears in his eyes from the doorway. “Oh my friends, I’m so happy.”

Courfeyrac did not want to break away from Combeferre, so he only pulled a quizzical face in Jehan’s direction.

“My poem, the beautiful dream I had, it has come true. I will write another verse for you!” And Jehan rushed away to find his best writing quill.

“Wasn’t Jehan’s poem about Death’s embrace?” Combeferre asked blankly.

“With Prouvaire, you never know,” Courfeyrac answered and tucked his face back into Combeferre’s neck. After a while, Courfeyrac let himself be persuaded to move, but only to go to Combeferre’s lodgings so they could talk more quietly. On their way out, they found Jehan, earnestly writing. A few streets further, they passed by Bahorel, getting into a fight with a classical architect. They left, the moment they saw Bahorel punch the man unconscious, so they would not be drawn into this quarrel. Both were anxious to reach their destination.

In the following days, the plan unfolded itself exactly as envisioned. Hèloise Auguste was a pious lady, with insights in her father’s coffers and a remarkable force of will. The workers at the quarry had not been paid for the stone that was to build the temple and likely never wouldn’t. In the face of his beloved daughter’s piety, the missing architect and the strain on the treasury, Minister Auguste withdrew his support for the Royal Temple. When Courfeyrac accompanied Cosette back to her house, twin triumph in their eyes, he recognised her garden as the one from his vision. Last puzzle piece finally fallen into place, Courfeyrac hurried back to find Combeferre and tell him the good news.

The celebration among the young revolutionaries was wild and with abandon. But for Combeferre and Courfeyrac it was quiet and private, taken in each other’s embrace. Meanwhile, near the Palace, the foundations to a Temple that would never be crumbled. And Lady Fate smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it, the most plotlike story I've ever written. And yes, I got the idea partly because Lady Istus from The Adventure Zone is an amazing character.
> 
> Aren't you all glad Bahorel's dream came true?
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, please let me know what you thought, since this was very much experimental for me.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


End file.
